Entropy
by Wynn
Summary: A piece of advice: don't drink firewhisky if your entire world is crashing down about your head in a most spectacular fashion. Otherwise you'll end up in the middle of the Shrieking Shack on your last night at Hogwarts kissing Draco Malfoy. Like me. DMHG
1. It's the End of the World

Title: Entropy

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgentsunhotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter_. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc.  No copyright infringement intended.

AN: I wrote this fic for the Last Night for Love challenge; the challenge requirements will be listed at the end of the story.  This fic is written in the vein of a dramatic monologue, which means that the narrator (Hermione) is talking to someone, but we don't know who they are and we don't hear what they say to her, only hearing Hermione's responses to them.  Feedback is a wonderful and much appreciated thing.

Part One: It's the End of the World as We Know It,

And I Don't Feel Fine

-_entropy (noun.)  1. A measure of a system's capacity to undergo spontaneous change.  2. A measure of the disorder or randomness in a system._

            A piece of advice: do not drink firewhisky if your entire world is crashing down about your head in a most spectacular fashion.  While the pleasurable sensation of inebriation may initially ease the pain caused by the flaming freefall of life as you know it, this feeling is fleeting at best, simply a temporary salve to soothe your burns.  At worst, the drink will _utterly _destroy whatever was left of your good sense and cause you to behave in ways completely incongruous to your character.

            How else do you explain how I ended up in the middle of the Shrieking Shack on my last night at Hogwarts kissing Draco Malfoy?

            You can't.  I couldn't then, and I'm still not sure I can now.  As much as I hate to admit it, some things simply defy explanation.  And that moment in the Shack, that entire night, is one of them.  Moments like those step beyond the realms of logic and predictability and become something else, something very nearly alive, with a will and a mind of their own.

            You don't believe me?  It's all right.  I didn't want to believe it either.  Hence the firewhisky.  But everything still happened, in spite of the drink and all my protestations.  Everything happened exactly the way it shouldn't have.  At least to me.  Everyone else seemed to deal with the end of the world just fine.

            As I said, it was my last night at Hogwarts.  Graduation was to occur the next day and everybody would leave school afterwards to go start their lives elsewhere.  But first was the Last Year, Last Night Pub Crawl, traditionally beginning at the Three Broomsticks with the Seventh Year Superlative Ceremony.  During the ceremony, one of the school's professors (Professor McGonagall that year) would announce the superlatives.  What are superlatives?  Different things like Most Likely to Succeed or Most Likely to End Up at St. Mungo's.  Only one student's chosen for most of the categories.  I had my heart set on the Next Minister of Magic superlative, in addition to being named class valedictorian. 

            Life, it seemed, had a different plan.

            The Three Broomsticks was packed, naturally, with seventh year students, their friends and dates, a few townspeople, some former Hogwarts graduates, and a couple of professors.  The front door was propped open to let in the soft, warm breeze that blew up from the south.  I sat in a corner booth with Ron and Harry, Neville, Ginny, Luna Lovegood, and Lavender Brown.  Butterbeer bottles crowded the table as did a few shot glasses and other half-finished drinks; they competed for space with empty pretzel bowls and crumpled Honeydukes wrappers.

            The euphoria originating from Voldemort's defeat five months before still prevailed.  If anything, it reached an even higher pitch that night, surpassing that felt the night after You-Know-Who's death.  That night was a celebration of death, of closure to the decades of torment suffered by the wizarding world under Voldemort's tyranny.  But this night, the night of the Pub Crawl, was a celebration of life, of new beginnings, and a promise of the future.  All things considered, I thought I'd prepared myself quite well for the knowledge that nothing would be the same after that night.  But all potential changes were to be on my terms.  I would be valedictorian, earn a job at the horribly disarrayed Ministry, find a nice, sensible flat to live in, and become Minister of Magic within the next ten years. 

            It was a nice plan.  It was a sensible plan.  Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your point of view) it was a plan that was not meant to be.

            Professor McGonagall ascended the stairs to the make-shift platform in the center of the Three Broomsticks to begin the ceremony.  The chosen professor usually announces the valedictorian first, followed by the rest of the superlatives, and I believed that year to be no different.  And it wasn't.  Professor McGonagall _did _announce the valedictorian first, but instead of the name I expected to hear, my name, Hermione Granger, she said, "And this year's class valedictorian is… Pansy Parkinson."

            Pansy.  Pansy _Parkinson_.  A girl who passed at least half of every class with her nose stuck in some fashion magazine.  A girl who spent the night before N.E.W.T exams behind the school broom shed with Terry Boot doing things _other_ than studying to be sure.  _She's_ the valedictorian.  Not me.  Not.  Me.  Seven years of day long study sessions all for nothing.  Countless nights spent in the library surrounded by stacks of books and parchment and scrolls all for nothing.  It was all for nothing. 

            My complete shock must have been evident on my face because Ron leaned over the table toward me and said, "Somehow Pansy's made top marks in every class, coming in second behind you.  In everything except Potions, that is."

            "Who's second there?"

            "You are.  Behind Pansy."

            "_What_?!"  Ron flinched from my shrill shriek.  "But… but Pansy hates Potions.  She hates it.  Half the time she conned some Hufflepuff into doing her work for her.  How could Snape make her his top student?"

            "Well, she is a Slytherin, and Snape refuses to have anyone other than a Slytherin as his top student, _especially_ a Gryffindor.  And he did say he thought Pansy's conning of Hufflepuffs demonstrated cunning and initiative, the trademarks of a true Slytherin."  Ron rolled his eyes and leaned back against the booth.  He took a drink of his butterbeer and continued, "I always figured Malfoy'd be number one with Snape, but after The Incident, Pansy became his favorite."

            "And thus valedictorian."

            "Seems so."

            I nodded- What?  The Incident?  Hasn't enough already been spoken about it?  Well, I know not by me, but I wasn't there.  How in the world would I be able to accurately discuss something I didn't see firsthand?  And besides, I don't really see how it's pertinent to this- Fine.  All right.  The Incident, as it was dubbed by The Daily Prophet, occurred during April of my sixth year.  As everyone knows, Voldemort no longer needed to curb his actions to keep his return a secret.  He started attacking Dumbledore and his followers at every opportunity.  Nobody was safe, not even Muggles, but Voldemort's ultimate goal, the death of Harry Potter, eluded him no matter what he did.  So, eventually, he took drastic measures to lure Harry out into the open in order to kill him. 

            He sent Peter Pettigrew after me. 

            Having people try to kill me was nothing new at that point.  With everything that had happened to Harry, Ron, and myself during our tenure at Hogwarts, I was no stranger to fighting for my life.  But that attack… that was personal.  Harry hated Pettigrew for what he did to his parents and to Sirius Black.  I think Harry hated Pettigrew even more than he hated Voldemort.  Voldemort knew the way to draw Harry out was to have Pettigrew take away someone else Harry cared about, so Pettigrew did.  Well, tried to, at any rate. 

            Obviously, since I'm here talking to you, Pettigrew failed in his attempt to kill me, but I… I was in the hospital wing quite some time from… from the injuries.  Harry and Ron were furious, of course, exactly how Voldemort wanted them to feel.  They wanted to kill Pettigrew right then and there, against the wishes of Dumbledore and Remus Lupin and Arthur Weasley, who wanted to devise a plan first before acting.  But Harry and Ron wouldn't wait.  They acted without thinking, fell right into Voldemort's trap, and nearly got themselves killed.  That is, if it hadn't been for Draco Malfoy.

                I'm still not sure why Malfoy helped Harry and Ron that night.  That's the one thing about himself he _doesn't _talk about.  For whatever reason though, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle saved Ron and Harry from Voldemort and, in the end, helped them to kill Peter Pettigrew, too.   

            And that's The Incident in a nutshell.  On that night, Draco Malfoy helped save Harry Potter and then he aligned himself with Dumbledore the next day, turning against his father and Voldemort.  As to why Malfoy saving Harry would remove him from his position as Snape's favorite student… Well, Snape's feelings regarding Harry were a bit complicated, to say the least, and thus so was his reaction to Malfoy saving Harry's life. 

            Returning to the topic at hand, I nodded in response to Ron's comment about Pansy.  Ron grabbed a pretzel from one of the plastic bowls, picked off all of the salt, and stuffed it into his mouth whole.  Pansy was the valedictorian, and Ron was eating a pretzel, acting like everything was fine and dandy with the world when everything was clearly _not _fine and dandy.  I wasn't valedictorian.  I was _supposed _to be valedictorian, but I wasn't.  "Oh, god."

            Ron dropped his second pretzel as he caught sight of my face; his own paled considerably.  "Breathe, Hermione.  Breathe."

            Black spots bounced before my eyes, and my fingertips grew numb.  Ron watched me, wide-eyed and wary.  "Harry?  Harry?  _Harry_!"

            "What?!"  Harry wrenched himself away from his marathon make-out session with Lavender Brown, his latest in a string of short-lived girlfriends spanning the months after Voldemort's defeat.  And, no, I will not stop and discuss the finer details of Harry Potter's love life at this moment, so don't even ask.  What?  That is completely ridiculous.  Harry did not embark on a self-destructive streak after Voldemort's death.  Quite the opposite, actually.  If virtually every moment of your life since the time you were eleven was devoted to defending yourself against a raving madman, I think you'd want to live a little too after he was gone.  Moving on.  Harry turned toward Ron, irritation evident on his face.  "What is it, Ron?"

            Ron lifted a shaky hand in my direction.  Harry glanced over at me and grimaced.  Strange wheezing noises started coming from my mouth.  The numbness had spread to my elbows, and the black dots were now a corona-like ring around my vision.  All I could think about was how could this have happened?  I was born to be class valedictorian.  I was a prefect for two years.  I was Hogwarts' Head Girl.  I helped bring about the death of Voldemort, for Godric's sake.  But who was now the representative for scholastic achievement at Hogwarts?  Pansy "Quidditch Groupie" Parkinson.  Oh, god.

            I was approximately three seconds from passing out when Luna reached across the table and gave my hand a good, hard squeeze.  "Congratulations, Hermione," she said.  Her soft, dreamy lilt was a direct contrast to the sharp stab of pain that raced from my smashed fingers to my brain.  The pain jolted me from my near catatonic stupor, and, gasping for breath, I yanked my hand from Luna's inhuman grip.  The Three Broomsticks snapped back into focus, and I found nearly every patron of the pub staring straight at me.

            "You should really go to the stage now, Hermione," Neville said.  He pointed to the platform where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick stood gazing at me expectantly.

            "What?  Why?"

            "To collect your certificate," Ginny said from beside me.

            "My certificate?  For what?" 

            Luna wound her arms around Ron's waist as she said to me, "For Hogwarts student Most Likely to Play Professional Quidditch, of course."

            It was the 'of course' that did it.  That let me know that all was not right in Denmark, that I had left Kansas far, far behind, and that I had officially tumbled down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.  And, yes, those are Muggle references.  I am Muggle born, after all.  They're to be expected.  Translate them later if you feel the need.      

            Utterly confused, I called Luna's name.

            "Yes, Hermione?"

            "Luna, I don't play Quidditch.  I don't like Quidditch.  I don't even like flying.  You heard wrong."

            "No, I didn't."

            "Yes, you did."

            "_No_, I didn't."

            "_Yes-_"

            "No, she didn't," Ginny said, patting my hand consolingly.

            "Yes-"

            "Ms. Granger?"

            I looked over.  Professor McGonagall had made her way across the pub to our booth, before which she stood grasping a small certificate.  A certificate that clearly named me as the Hogwarts student Most Likely to Play Professional Quidditch in swirly black letters.

            Professor McGonagall thrust the parchment in my direction.  "Your certificate, Ms. Granger."

            "There has to be some sort of mistake, Professor.  I hate Quidditch.  I hate flying."

            "The Durnheim Well chooses the superlatives, Ms. Granger.  It is never wrong."

            Not much is known about the Durnheim Well, except that it's not a well at all.  It's more like a cross between the Sorting Hat and a pensieve.  Like most of the magical objects at Hogwarts, the Well is very old, very rare, and very powerful.  If used correctly, it's supposed to be able to foresee the future.  As you can imagine, in the wrong hands this sort of capability could be most disastrous, which is why the Well's kept at Hogwarts for safekeeping.  The professors have been using it for years to choose these superlatives, claiming it's all done in good fun.  But students came to view the Well's predictions very seriously over the years since more often than not they came true.

            And that's one of the reasons why I was less than thrilled with my Quidditch-related certificate.  I had no desire to play Qudditch.  I had no desire to do anything related to flying on a broomstick, but both the Well and Professor McGonagall, and everyone else I ever knew, ignored both me and my protests. 

            Professor McGonagall dropped the certificate onto the table and, after a military-crisp turn, strode back to the platform.  Professor Flitwick handed her another piece of parchment, and after a moment's glance, she declared Vincent Crabbe to be the Biggest Sorting Hart Mix-Up, accidentally sorted into Slytherin instead of his true house, Gryffindor. 

            Faint applause sounded through the pub as a red-faced Crabbe made his way to the stage to collect his award.  He tripped on the hem of his robes as he stepped onto the platform and nearly knocked Professor Flitwick to the floor.  Blushing hard, Crabbe grabbed the certificate and returned to his table, not looking at anyone or anything other than the ground before him.  Back at his table, he showed his certificate to Malfoy, who, of course, rolled his eyes and cracked some sort of joke, causing Crabbe to turn an even deeper shade of red.  Crabbe tried to shove the award into the inside pocket of his robes, but Goyle reached over the table and snatched it before he could succeed.  Goyle brought the paper close to his face for inspection and then handed it back to Crabbe with a muttered comment and glance at my table.  Crabbe and Malfoy followed Goyle's gaze, and before I could look away, I locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. 

            Across the pub, we stared at each other.  I'm not sure for how long.  It couldn't have been for more than a minute, but it felt longer.  Slowly, he raised his glass toward me, pausing briefly before throwing back what was left of his drink.  I felt a blush spread across my cheeks, and Malfoy smirked.

            Why did I blush?  I… Well… I- It was a very intense stare.  And… I don't know… He- Look, at that time, Draco Malfoy was something of an unknown variable.  He liked it that way, too.  Having people not know what he would do or say next amused him to no end.  He reveled in lording his newfound unpredictability over everyone else.  Sometimes I think he said shocking things simply for the sake of saying them.  Or did shocking things, like the bit with the glass, just to see what sort of reaction he'd receive. 

            But as I was to learn later that night there was more to Malfoy's capriciousness, and more to him, than just simple shock value.  However, before I learned, I freaked.  I broke the stare between us and dropped my eyes down to the table.  "Oh, god.  Ohgodohgodohgod."  What the hell was happening?  What the _hell_ was happening?  Everything about that farce of a superlative ceremony was just plain wrong; Pansy was the best student in the school, Crabbe should have been in Gryffindor, apparently I was destined for Quidditch, and Malfoy raised his glass to me.

            The world had gone mad, truly, truly insane, and I seemed to be the only one who noticed.

            I needed a drink.  Immediately.

            I downed the first drink my hands came across, which turned out to be a shot of firewhisky.  The whisky lit my throat on fire and sparked a blaze in my stomach that brought tears to my eyes and sent me into a royal coughing fit.  Half-blind with tears, I fumbled around for my glass of cool, soothing butterbeer.  Of course, in the midst of my fumbling, I knocked the stupid thing onto Ginny, who, in a desperate attempt to flee the cold liquid, slid toward the end of the booth, shoving Neville to the floor right in front of Seamus Finnigan, who had been walking past our table loaded with a tray of drinks, and startling him so much that he lost his grip on the tray, sent it crashing down onto an oblivious and still snogging Lavender and Harry, who sprang apart cursing and sputtering and smelling of pumpkin juice and alcohol.

            Deafening silence filled the pub, and once again, every Three Broomsticks patron was staring straight at me.  Somehow I doubted the fact that Draco Malfoy raised his glass to me would be a sufficient explanation to the tragedy that was the previous thirty seconds.

            Ron rubbed a hand across his jaw in a vain attempt to hide his grin.  "Smooth, Hermione.  Very smooth."

            "Oh, piss off, Ron."

            "No, really, and here I thought I had the role of fumbling klutz perfected, but you… you are an inspiration."

            I dropped my head onto the table with a muffled thump.  "I hate you.  I truly do."

            "It's all right, Hermione," Neville said from the floor.  "Nothing a few cleaning spells won't fix."

            "It's not all right," I mumbled.  "Nothing is right.  Everything is horribly, horribly wrong."

            "You can say that again," Lavender snapped.  "There's no waythe smell of alcohol will ever get out of this dress.  Thank you so very much, Hermione."

            "You _should_ thank Hermione," Luna said, peering around Ron.  Her nose wrinkled as she inspected Lavender's dress.  "It's quite an ugly dress.  Now you won't have to wear it again," she finished with a bright smile.

            "What the hell do you know about fashion anyway?  You wear a stupid lion on your head on a regular basis."

            Ginny cleaned away the last of the butterbeer and returned to her seat.  "Regardless of Luna's… different taste in clothes, she's right about your dress.  Really, Lavender?  Leopard-printed taffeta?  What on earth possessed you to buy that let alone wear it out in public?"

            Lavender sniffed.  "Everyone can't be expected to understand the finer points of fashion."

            "For which I am eternally grateful.  I'd rather wear Hagrid's big fuzzy suit than that dress."

            Lavender slammed her hands down on the table and shoved off of Harry's lap.  With one last glare directed at the entire group, Harry included, she stormed away and disappeared into the girl's bathroom in a swirl of black and tan spots. 

            "Thanks a lot, Ginny."

            "Don't glare at me, Harry Potter.  It's not my fault Lavender has horrible taste in clothes."

            "You didn't have to say anything nasty though.  Now she won't come back."

            "And this is bad because?"

            "Really, mate," Ron said around a mouthful of pretzel, "Lavender's an all right girl I suppose, but the only reason you two got together in the first place was to snog and have some fun.  If you're that desperate to make-out with someone, make-out with Ginny."

            "What?!"

            "What?!"

            I raised my head from the table.  Both Ginny and Harry were staring at Ron in horror.  Ron shrugged off their reactions.  "What's the big deal, Ginny? I thought you fancied Harry."

            "Yeah, about three _years _ago.  Not now.  No offense Harry."

            "None taken."

            "And even if I wanted to snog Harry, which I don't, I couldn't.  I'm already seeing somebody."

            Ron frowned.  "Since when are you seeing somebody?"

            "Since last fall, Mr. Oblivious."

            "What?  Why didn't I know about this?"  Ron turned to me.  He eyed me suspiciously and said, "Did you know about this?  How could you know about this and not tell me?"

            "I didn't know.  But if I did, I certainly wouldn't have told you.  It's none of your business."

            "Who my little sister is dating is none of my business?  I think it is."

            "I think it's not," Ginny said.  She held Ron's infuriated gaze, exhibiting the patented Ginny 'I have six older brothers' tough streak.  A couple of beats passed and then she rolled her eyes and sighed.  "Look, Ron, if you had known, you just would've freaked out.  Unnecessarily, I might add, but you would have."

            "I would not have freaked out.  What makes you think I would have freaked out?"

            "Probably the fact that you're freaking out now," Harry said.

            "Shut up, Harry.  I am _not _freaking out."

            "Yes, you are," Luna said.  She smoothed one hand over Ron's hair, patting down the errant strands.  "Your voice is becoming very shrill and you've turned that splotchy color that happens whenever you're angry or excitable."

            Ron's splotchy color gave way to a fiery blush.  "I am not excitable."

            "Yes, you are, dear."

            "No, I'm-"

            "Oh, for Merlin's sake," I snapped.  "Ginny's a big girl, Ron.  She's going to be dating people for a very long time.  Get used to it.  And who knows?  You might actually like whomever she's dating now, so you're probably freaking out over absolutely nothing."

            "Ginny," Neville said, thankfully interrupting whatever Ron was about to say to me, "who _are _you dating?"

            "She's dating me."

            In retrospect, Ron had no reason to react the way he did to the revelation of Ginny's boyfriend.  He knew absolutely nothing about their relationship, and for the four months or so before that night, and for a good while afterward, Ginny nearly glowed she was so happy.  Ron should have trusted her enough to know she would do what was right for her.  But this was Ron, who gave and still gives, new meaning to the word 'overprotective.'  So, naturally, he freaked.  We all did.  It was sort of hard not to when confronted with the towering, six-foot-two frame of Gregory Goyle.

            "The _fuck _she is."

            Harry shoved Ron back down onto the booth and Luna grabbed his arm to keep him from launching over the table at Goyle.  Reproachful glares were directed at Ron from all sides, but Ginny went so far as to lean over the table and smack her brother upside the head for his rude outburst.  Ron scowled at each one of us before finally settling his annoyed and infuriated gaze onto Ginny.  "You're dating _Goyle_?"

            "Yes."

            "You're _dating _Goyle."

            "Yes," Ginny repeated, exasperated.

            "_You're_-"

            "It's not that we don't trust your judgment or anything, Ginny," Harry cut in, casting uneasy glances at both Ron and Goyle.  "It's just that, well, it's just that it's _Goyle_.  Malfoy's henchman.  One-third of the bane of our existence, remember?" 

            "No offense or anything," Neville said swiftly.  He looked like the proverbial dear in the headlights, watching Goyle as though he would snap at any moment and pummel us all.

            Goyle shrugged off Neville's remark as Ron leaned forward, elbowing Harry in the stomach, and fixed him with a hard, furious stare.  "Did you put my sister under some sort of spell?  Because if you did-"

            Ignoring Ron completely, Goyle looked at Ginny and said, "Pansy, Terry, and Vin are all going to Honeydukes.  Do you want to come with us?"

            Ginny's face softened as she turned from Ron to Goyle.  "Sure.  Just give me a couple of minutes so I can deal with my deranged brother-" 

            "Hey!"

            "-and I'll meet you there."

            "Well, you are acting a bit ridiculous," I said to Ron as Goyle lumbered away.

            "Don't tell me you're okay with this!"

            "I… Well, I- I don't know exactly.  I mean, if Ginny's… happy with him, then I guess I don't see-"

            Ron sighed in disgust and turned to Harry.  "Harry, come on, you _have _to see the complete wrong with this.  It's unnatural.  He's a _Slytherin_."

            "Ron, seriously, grow up," Ginny snapped.  "Don't you think we're a little too old to be so concerned with what house someone's in?"

            "He does have a point, Ginny," Harry said.  He winced as Ginny looked at him and slowly raised one eyebrow; she looked exactly like a younger version of an infuriated Molly Weasley.  "Not just that Goyle's in Slytherin.  But that he was one of the worst Slytherins there was."

            "You're right, Harry.  Greg _was _one of the worst Slytherins.  But he's changed."

            Ron snorted in disgust.  "Yeah, right.  Sure he has.  The only thing that's changed about Goyle over the years is that he's gotten taller.  Just because you're dating him doesn't mean he's suddenly become some sort of nice person."

            "He's been nice to me lately," Luna said.  "One time this winter the wind blew my scarf off my neck, and he brought it back to me.  If he hadn't, it would have been lost in the lake forever."  Luna frowned.  "It probably would have been eaten by the three-jawed piranhas, too.  They fancy wool, you know."

            Everyone ignored Luna's piranha related comment.  Ginny folded her arms across her chest and said, "Greg has changed, Ron.  Do you honestly think someone could have lived through the last couple of years and _not _change?  He saved your life, for Merlin's sake!"

            "More like he saved his own life.  Don't you know that rats are always the first to know when a ship is sinking?  Even a complete lunkhead like Goyle could have sensed that You-Know-Who's number was up."

            "Greg.  Is not.  A lunkhead.  Just because he doesn't make top marks doesn't make him a bad person.  And it's not like you're such a brilliant student either, Ron."

            Harry again interrupted Ron before he could reply.  Both Ginny and Ron had turned as red as their hair as their tempers rose, and their argument had begun to attract curious stares from the other pub goers.  "We're concerned, Ginny, that's all.  I mean, have you forgotten all of the horrible stuff he's done to us over the years?  You hated him, too."

            "I know.  I know I did."  Ginny slumped back against the booth, the fight suddenly draining from her.  "But I didn't _know_ him then.  Not really.  I hated him because he hated us, but none of us ever knew why we hated the other.  We just did because we were in Gryffindor and they were in Slytherin and our parents hated their parents and everyone expected us to.  I'm not saying Greg is a perfect person because he's not.  He's far from it.  But he's more than just Malfoy's henchman or one-third of the bane of our existence, and if you'd take one second to put aside all of your ideas about who you _think_ he is and actually try and talk to him, you would know this.

            "You'd think after witnessing firsthand with You-Know-Who what a horrible power prejudice is or how stupid it is to categorize someone simply based on where they were born or who their parents are, we'd-" Ginny broke off with a shake of her head.  There were tears in her eyes.  She leaned over and whispered something to Neville, who immediately slid out of the booth.  I grabbed Ginny's arm before she could leave; she looked back at me and said, "I'm fine, Hermione.  Really.  I just need to leave before I kick my brother's arse for being a moron."

            "Hey!"

            "Sweetie, you are acting somewhat like an idiot."

            "Luna!"

            I shared a look with Ginny, making sure she really was all right.  A couple seconds went by and then I nodded and let go of her arm.  She smiled at me, rolled her eyes at Harry and Ron, waved goodbye to Luna, and eased out of the booth and the pub.  Nobody spoke in the wake of Ginny's departure, trying to come to terms with the revelation of her relationship with Goyle and her final parting words.  In our silence, I heard Professor McGonagall announce the person chosen by the Well as the student most likely to be the Next Minister of Magic.

            It was Draco Malfoy.

            I needed another drink.


	2. Metamorphosis

Title: Entropy

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgentsunhotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter_. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc.  No copyright infringement intended.

AN: I couldn't resist using a line from the movie _Out of Sight_ or from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. 

Part Two: Metamorphosis,

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Change

            Under normal circumstances, using alcohol as a coping mechanism for life's strange twists and turns would not be something I would do.  Yet circumstances were clearly anything but normal that night, and while I certainly don't condone drinking your troubles away, sometimes, I suppose, viewing the world a bit differently, say through rose colored glasses, isn't always the most horrible thing in the world.  Especially if your world has been tilted upside down on its axis by forces beyond your control. 

            So, against better judgment, I left the booth and headed to the bar to procure another drink.  Madam Rosmerta took one look at my surely miserable and bewildered face, grabbed a shot glass, filled it with firewhisky, and plunked the drink down before me.  I smiled gratefully and gave her a few sickles for payment.  Then I took a deep breath, lifted the glass, and swallowed the whisky in one gulp.  More tears and coughing occurred of course, but thankfully, there was not another international incident like the one back at the booth.  Unless, that is, you count the following conversation between myself and Draco Malfoy as an international incident.  I know I certainly did.

            "Enlighten me, Granger.  Is firewhisky the drink of choice for Hogwarts' Head Girls?  Somehow I thought it would be something clean and virginal and non-alcoholic.  Like water."

            "Go away, Malfoy."

            "Now, now, is that any way to greet the future Minister of Magic?"

            "Oh, god.  Don't remind me."  I closed my eyes and willed Malfoy to go away, but he didn't leave.  He never leaves when you want him to.  Instead, he slid onto the stool next to me and ordered a tumbler of Siberian vodka.    

            "You thought it would be you, didn't you?" he said, casting a sidelong glance my way.  "The one who would be named the Next Minister of Magic."

            "Yes, Malfoy.  Yes, I did think it would be me.  I thought it would be someone reasonable.  Someone not… not…"

            "Evil?"

            "…_you_."

            Malfoy's mouth quirked up into a grin.  "What's so wrong with me?"

            I sighed.  "Where do I start?"

            "The beginning's always worked for me."

            "I hate to disappoint you, Malfoy, but it would take me all night and well into tomorrow morning to list all of the things that are wrong with you."

            "Lucky for you then my schedule for the night happens to be free."

            I looked over at Malfoy, but I couldn't discern whether he was actually serious behind his patented Malfoy smirk.  I leaned forward and scrutinized him through half-closed eyes; he watched me inspect him in mild amusement, but his gaze never wavered from mine and I knew then he was truly serious.  He _wanted_ to sit there and listen to me list all of the things that I thought were wrong with him.  He wanted to voluntarily spend time with me. 

            Oh, bloody hell.

            I stood, clutching the bar as I swayed a bit on my feet.  "No.  No, no, no, no, _no_." 

            "No what?"

            "No, you do not get to do this."

            "Do what?"

            "_This_."  I waved my arms around, gesturing from me to him and back again.  "Be different.  Not tonight.  Not on top of everything else that's gone wrong.  I don't know what sorts of delusions have seized control of your brain, but let me remind you that we do notsit down and have nice, cozy chats with one another."

            Malfoy looked amused.  Still.  "What do we do then since we do not sit down and have nice, cozy chats with one another?"

            "We insult each other at every opportunity and generally avoid the other whenever we can."  I paused and leaned forward again, bringing my face close to Malfoy's.  He glanced down and I knew he was looking down my top.  Slimy bastard.  "I hate you and you hate me.  Remember?"

            "What if I said I didn't hate you?"

            I blinked and moved away from Malfoy, frowning.  "Then clearly the insanity has taken you over completely, and now you're the Hogwarts student Most Likely to End Up at St. Mungo's."  I smiled at that and continued, "Which is good for me because then I can be the future Minister of Magic and not some ruddy Quidditch player."

            At that point, I realized I was very nearly drunk.  I had said ruddy and bloody hell, invaded Malfoy's personal space not once but twice, and failed to slap him for taking a peek at my chest.  I hadn't even yelled at him.  I needed to get away, from the pub, from the firewhisky, and especially from Draco Malfoy, before this night got any stranger.  I eased back from the bar, and, without pausing to say goodbye to Malfoy, headed for the open front door.

            "Where are you going, Granger?"

            "I'm going away," I said over my shoulder, which wasn't a smart move as I nearly lost my balance and fell down on my arse.  "Do not follow me."

            Of course he followed me.  I hadn't made it two steps out of the Three Broomsticks before Malfoy came strolling along, slowing to a stop beside me when I turned to glare at him.  Under the light of the half-moon, I noticed that he had foregone his school robes in favor of a pair of dark grey pants and a long-sleeved pale green shirt.  I, too, had left my robes behind, wearing instead a maroon tank, a flowing knee-length skirt, and a pair of sandals.  I have to admit it was a tad disconcerting to see Malfoy dressed in something other than a Hogwarts' uniform.  He looked almost normal.  And, yes, I suppose he looked handsome.  In a pale evil sort of way.  If you like that sort of thing.

            A soft wind blew strands of my hair before my eyes, and I shoved them away to better scowl at Malfoy.  "Whatdo you think you're doing?"

            "Walking with you."

            "I told you not to follow me."

            "And I'm not.  I'm walking _beside _you," he said with a cocky grin.

            "Don't you have anyone else to bother?"

            Malfoy's brows drew together in mock concentration.  He peered back inside the pub and murmured, "I suppose I could go bother Potter, but he just might try to snog me.  After all, he has become something of a slut these past few months.  I don't think gender would be much of an issue to him at this point."

            I walked away.  It was all I could do.  My brain had been paralyzed by images of a snogging Harry and Malfoy.  I- Did I think it was hot?  Honestly, get your mind _out _of the gutter.  Snogging is not the issue here.  Yes, yes, fine.  Whatever.  You're right.  In a vague circumstantial sense, it _is _the issue.  But not hypothetical boy-on-boy snogging, so please _try_ to focus.

            There was a fair crowd on the streets of Hogsmeade for that time of the night.  Most were Hogwarts students although a few parents in town early for graduation were also frequenting the various shops and pubs.  I had no clue where I was going on my impulsive trek from the Three Broomsticks.  I certainly didn't want to walk all the way back to Hogwarts with Malfoy in tow.  I contemplated returning to the pub for Harry and Ron, but I didn't want to chance Ron turning his Ginny-and-Goyle related frustrations onto Malfoy by picking a fight with him.  Ditching Malfoy by Apparating somewhere else in town briefly crossed my mind, too, but I knew better than to try to do so while slightly drunk.  Splinching myself was not an acceptable alternative to spending time with Draco Malfoy.  My short list of options dwindling, I seized my very last chance and hoped it would work a miracle.

            In other words, I decided on the direct approach. 

            "Don't you have anywhere else you can go?  Isn't there any of your family in town for graduation you might want to see?"

            Malfoy grimaced.  "Mother is in town, but she's dining with that Lupin bloke tonight."

            "What?!  _Professor_ Lupin?!"

            "My thoughts exactly.  I wouldn't have thought Mother would go for a werewolf, but ever since he saved her life in January, she's been completely smitten with him.  Frankly, it makes me want to heave."

            I stopped in the middle of the street, eyes narrowing in anger.  "Why?  Is it because he's a werewolf?  That is so typical-"

            "No, Granger.  It's because she's my _mum_."  A beat passed and then he shrugged.  "I suppose the werewolf thing has something to do with it too, but if Mother wants to take a walk on the wild side, that's her business."

            "You seriously expect me to believe that you've had a sudden change of heart about Lupin and werewolves?  To the point where you're okay with your mum dating one?"

            Malfoy rolled his eyes and started down the street again.  "I never said I was okay with Mother dating Lupin.  I harbor no delusions about how dangerous he can be.  He _is _a werewolf, Granger, not a big, fluffy bunny.  His lifespan will be significantly shorter than a normal wizard's due to the strain put on his body by the monthly changes.  But Mother's happy.  She's happy…"  He drifted off then, retreating back into his mind and his memories, and the Malfoy mask of sarcasm and dismissal disappeared for a moment, revealing genuine feeling within his grey eyes.

            I leaned forward to better see the play of emotions across Malfoy's face.  I couldn't help it.  I know it was a very personal moment, and I should have respected personal boundaries and privacy and all that lot, but this was such a new side to Malfoy, an actual _human_ side, that I couldn't resist further investigation.  However, my inebriated sense of balance couldn't adequately compensate for my excessive curiosity, and I stumbled forward, knocking into Malfoy and breaking him from his reverie.  Mortified at my klutziness and my third personal space invasion, I jerked backwards, nearly falling on my arse once again, and was saved only by Malfoy and his quick Quidditch reflexes. 

            After a moment's pause, in which I thankfully regained control of my equilibrium, I eased out from under Malfoy's grip on my shoulders and put much needed distance back between us.  Face hot and flushed, I mumbled something resembling an apology and continued down the road.   Malfoy, for his part, looked the definition of cool, calm, and collected.  "So," he said as we passed by Honeydukes, "I take it from the hysterics at your booth earlier that Weasley just found out about his sister and Goyle?"

            I followed the conversation segue, not wanting to press the previous subject while at something less than top form.  Interacting with an angry, guarded, frustrated, or embarrassed Draco Malfoy is a bit like going to war.  It's kill or be killed, and Malfoy can be as ruthless as his father when he wants to be.  "Um, yes.  We all did.  I assume by your lack of hysterics that you already knew?"

            "Of course I knew.  They've been seeing each other for _months_.  Only a total half-wit wouldn't have noticed something strange going on between those two."

            "Oh, yes, how silly of me.  I forgot you're Draco Malfoy and therefore know absolutely everything there is to know about anything."

            "Isn't this a pot calling the kettle moment?" Malfoy asked with a raised eyebrow.  "And I wouldn't say I know _everything_, Granger."

            "Yes.  You are distinctly lacking in the area of morals and ethics."

            "I'm not lacking.  You just think so because my definition differs from yours."

            "Right.  As in I have them and you don't."

            "No, what you have is a highly developed sense of self-righteousness.  Maybe that's a Gryffindor trait though since Potter and the Weasel are afflicted, too."

            "If this is your version of a nice, cozy chat," I snapped, "I'll pass.  I don't fancy being insulted all night."

            "One, it wasn't an insult.  And two, you won't pass."

            I stopped, floored by his audacious presumption.  Malfoy turned to face me.  He had a look in his eyes like he knew the answer to the question I hadn't yet asked and couldn't wait to exercise his superior insight and enlighten me.  I knew I shouldn't have asked the question.  He wanted me to ask, and asking could only lead to a Malfoy desired destination and I certainly didn't want to go there.   But I still asked.  My curiosity got the better of me as it often does.

            "And why wouldn't I pass?"

            A smile broke out on his face, a slow, seductive, honest-to-goodness smile.  "Because you're having too much fun."

            "Fun?  You think I'm having fun?"

            "Not the sort of enjoyment you might receive from extra homework or flashing your Head Girl badge around, but I think you're enjoying this."

            "Oh, you _think_.  That's quite smug of you, isn't it, to presume to know what I'm feeling?"

            "The Durnheim Well didn't choose me as the Next Minister of Magic for nothing, Granger.  I do happen to notice a few things from time to time."

            "And what do you think you notice about me?"  I regretted the question as soon as I said it.  Malfoy's opinion of me had held no weight in the past, but now I was curious.  Now I wanted to know.  And that was a bad, bad thing.  That left me vulnerable and exposed and subject to whatever whim that could've flitted through his rather temperamental mind.  So I waited for him to speak, preparing myself for anything he might say, good or ill, but what he said was neither good nor ill.  It was surprising and revealing and embarrassing and frustrating.  It was quintessential Malfoy.

            "I think you're bored," he said holding my gaze and not letting go.  "You don't think you're bored, but you are.  You're stuck in this plan you've devised for your life, thinking it's what you really want, what you _should_ want, but I don't think it is.  I think the fact that you're here with me now means you want something different from life, but you're conflicted about it because it contradicts what you deem to be an acceptable lifestyle choice."

            "That I'm here with you now?!_  You _followed _me_!  I've tried my best to get away from you all night, but you keep hanging around like… like…"

            "Yes?  Like what?"

            "Don't get flip with me.  You don't know the first thing about me, and you never will."  I stormed away, fuming and flustered and very much bothered by Malfoy and his stupid words.  What an arrogant, aggravating, amoral-

            Malfoy sighed.  "Denial.  It's such a tragic state of being."

            -belligerent, beastly, bothersome-

            "I am not in denial!" I shouted back. 

            "Of course you're not."

            -caustic, condescending, cracked-

            "I'm not!"

            "Whatever you say, Granger."

            -despicable, devious, degenerate.

            "You know what," I said as I whirled around and stalked back toward Malfoy, "I'm a little tired of talking about me.  Let's talk about _you _for a bit, and why _you're_ here and what do _you _want out of life and how bored _you _are with absolutely everything and why the hell youwon't leave me alone!"

            He smirked.  The smarmy bastard had the nerve to smirk at me.  I wanted to hit him.  I wanted to hit him, kick him, curse him, smack him, knock that stupid smirk right off his stupid face.  "Isn't it obvious, Granger?"

            "Maybe to a crazy person the meaning behind your deranged behavior would be quite clear, but to those of us still maintaining our sanity, you're as annoyingly abstract as ever."

            "You know, insulting someone isn't the best way to get the information you want."

              A saccharine sweet smile stretched across my face.  "One, it wasn't an insult.  And two, you _will_ tell me."

            Malfoy looked like he was fighting hard not to grin.  "Oh, I will, will I?"

            "Yes, you will."

            "And why would I tell you anything?  I think I like you this way, all flustered and stubborn and absolutely _desperate _to know."

            "You'll tell me because you're Draco Malfoy, and you can't _not _tell.  It's physically impossible for you to keep something to yourself.  Especially something that you think will demonstrate some sort of superior intellectual capacity."

            Malfoy considered me for a minute, head tilted, lips pursed, and arms folded across his chest.  I waited, impatient, while he contemplated, and right before I thought I would scream from frustration, he said, "I'll make a deal with you, Granger.  I'll tell you virtually anything you want to know about me, why I'm here, what my future plans are, why I really joined with Dumbledore, anything, as long as you do one thing."

            "How do I know you'll tell me the truth?"

            "You're saying you don't trust me?  I'm wounded, Granger. I truly am."

            "I trust you about as much as I trust a bloodthirsty vampire."

            "What would be the point in lying to you?  If that's all I wanted, I'd be doing it right now instead of expending all this energy into trying to convince you that I'm not going to lie."

            "Yes, but luring me into trusting you and then shamelessly lying your guts out would be so much more amusing than just lying by itself."

            Malfoy closed the distance between us.  All previous smirks and smiles were gone.  The same light I'd seen in his eyes back at the pub, the same utter seriousness and hint of something else, a surprising earnestness, an intriguing sincerity, shone there now under the moonlight.  "What would it take for you to trust me?  Just for tonight?  Just this once?"

            "You mean besides an entire vat of _Veritaserum_?" I said with a weak smile. I didn't know what to say, whether to stay or to go, or how to react to Malfoy at all.  I knew _something _was happening, something significant.  I know how stupid that sounds, but it's the truth.  It was a feeling, of the tide changing, and I could go with the flow or swim back to shore.

            "What would it take?" I repeated.  I drew in a deep breath.  I gazed up at the sky then back down at Malfoy and remembered that I never did care much for swimming.  "Probably… probably this right here," I said, suddenly nervous, looking everywhere but at Malfoy himself.  "Also taking into consideration the one thing you have in mind, of course.  I won't do anything dangerous.  Or illegal."

            "Oh, it's nothing much," Malfoy said.  He circled around me, slowly, sauntering like he was the god-king of the universe.  I could feel his eyes on me and his presence behind me, the heat of his skin, the cool wisp of breath along the shell of my ear.  He lifted his arm and pointed.  I shivered as he murmured, "Break into the Shrieking Shack with me."

            "I- What?  Are you _insane_?"  Reason flooded my mind, washing away the madness caused by the firewhisky and Malfoy and the strangeness of that odd, odd night.  "I am not breaking into the Shrieking Shack with you.  There's a fence here for a reason, and it's to keep people like you out."  I pushed his arm back down and walked away.

            "Come on, Granger.  Live a little.  We're graduating tomorrow.  If we're caught, it's not like they can expel us."

            "Exactly.  We're graduating tomorrow, and I don't want to spend the entire night before traipsing about in a dusty, old shack."  I started down the path to Hogwarts.  I couldn't believe I let myself be swayed by Malfoy.  I was never drinking firewhisky again.  Ever.  It clearly made one vulnerable to delusional Slytherins with too blue to be grey eyes.

            "That's fine, Granger.  Go ahead and leave me here all alone.  I'm sure to be eaten by manic, cannibalistic specters or some sort of lumbering mutant troll.  Don't worry about me.  Only the future fate of wizarding Britain rests in your hands.  If you can live with being responsible for the gruesome death of the future Minister, then by all means continue on your way."

            I didn't stop.  I couldn't stop.  I wouldn't stop.

            "This is your last chance, Granger.  Professor Trelawney always said I would die tragically, mauled by a rabid manticore or lost forever in a cavernous, never ending chamber somewhere, slowly starving to death."

            I don't usually pray or give much thought to higher powers guiding us, but at that moment, I asked every god/goddess/universal omnipotent being I could think of why he/she/they/it saw fit to unload the king of all drama queens onto me that night.  What horrible thing had I done to deserve such a punishment?  Was me wanting to be class valedictorian really such a bad thing that I deserved an entire night spent with Draco Malfoy?  Because, if so, I fully relinquish all rights and responsibilities inherent in that title.  Including Malfoy.  Especially Malfoy. 

            "It's all right.  I accept my fate and will humbly give my life for the cause."

            I stopped.  Merlin forgive me, I stopped.  He… I… There's a thing, not a charming or endearing or appealing quality, but a weird thing that draws people to Malfoy.  Sometimes against their will.  He's almost like Harry in that respect only more extreme and off-putting.  And I couldn't… I don't know… I plead temporary insanity induced by alcohol and excessive stress, okay? 

            Malfoy stepped in front of me, a brilliant smile on his face.  "Excellent.  There's hope for you yet, Granger."  Then he grabbed my hand, swung me around, and took off for the Shack.

            I stumbled after him, dazed and more than a little bit confused.  "You… amaze me, Malfoy."

            "Thank you."

            "That wasn't a compliment."

            "Even better."

             Toward the back of the property, we came across a broken section of the fence and scrambled over it into the sloping, rocky yard.  Malfoy reached for his wand and muttered, "_Lumos_."  A small beam of light illuminated the ground before us.  We found a path of sorts that wound around the grounds, gradually rising higher and higher until it stopped before the peeling, boarded-up front door, and we followed the trail all the way to the house.  Winded from the climb, I looked from Malfoy to the door and said, "Now what?"

            "Now we find a way in."

            "How do you expect to get past the protection spells?" I asked.  Malfoy moved around the porch, peering through the narrow cracks between the window boards.  "Fred and George Weasley tested every window and door to try to break through them, and they didn't succeed."

            "I think I know a few spells they don't."

            "I bet you do."

            "What was that?"

            "Nothing.  I didn't say anything.  Maybe you're hearing things.  Auditory hallucinations are one of the first signs of schizophrenia, you know."

            Malfoy wasn't listening.  He had his wand shoved behind one ear and both hands wrapped around the warped end of one of the boards.  I watched as he tried to pry the board from the window.  One minute passed, followed by another, and another.  But aside from unleashing a large quantity of dust, Malfoy's efforts were for naught.  The board didn't move one inch. 

            "Are you going to help me or do you plan to just stand there all night watching me work?" Malfoy's hands were filthy and a few beads of sweat began to roll down the side of his face. 

            "Why should I help?  This was your idea.  Besides, I've already been inside the Shack.  A return trip isn't high on my list of priorities."

            Malfoy let go of the board and turned toward me.  Despite the dark shadows we were standing in, I could clearly see frustration clouding his eyes.  "Granger.  You.  You know how to get in? And you didn't say anything before now?"

            I shrugged.  "It must have slipped my mind.  Silly me."

            Malfoy closed his eyes and sighed.  He rubbed one hand over his forehead, leaving tracks of black dust on his pale skin.  I stifled a giggle at his smudged face and walked over to the front door, retrieving my wand from the pocket of my skirt.  I ran the tip along the edge of the door and it swung open to reveal the dark, dank interior of the Shack.  Turning to Malfoy, I said, "A lot of us used to come here sixth year to talk about the war, classes, things like that.  I devised an entrance charm modeled after the one used at Gringotts for each of us, based upon everyone's individual wand."

            "You made your own charm sixth year?  By yourself?"

            "Really, it was the summer between fifth and sixth, but I didn't work out all of the kinks until sixth year."

            "That's… that's impressive, Granger."

            "Oh, I-" I felt a blush spread across my cheeks from the unexpected compliment, and I ducked my head.  "Um, thank you.  I…"  The nerves returned, churning my stomach into a right mess.  My eyes flickered to Malfoy's before turning to the entrance hall lying beyond the open door.  I hadn't realized how close we were standing until now, and now we were close.  Very close.  Too close.  "I guess, I guess we can go inside now.  Since the door is open."

            "Yes," he murmured.  "I suppose we can."

            I kept my gaze pinned to the ground.  Malfoy wore a pair of black dragon hide boots and his Slytherin house ring on his right hand.  Said hand twitched, time slowed, and I forgot to breathe.  What was he doing?  Was he, was he going to kiss me?  Did I want him to?  Was that what was happening here, or was it only my over sensitized imagination working overtime?  Malfoy's hand hovered, hesitating, but instead of crossing the space between us, it continued up and retrieved his wand from behind his ear.  Expelling a shaky breath, Malfoy reignited the _Lumos _spell and said, "After you."

            After me.  I'd been in the Shack dozens of times before, at all times of the day and night, but now my feet refused to cross the threshold.  I knew every inch of the house, every nook and cranny, every loose floorboard and every piece of peeling wallpaper, but uncharted territory lay before me now.  And I admit it.  I was scared.  Not of the house, but of me and what I was feeling and what it might mean and how the thing that scared me the most was the fact that I wasn't really scared at all.

            "Malfoy?"

            "Yes?"

            "I need to ask you something."

            "What?"

            "Did you… did you want to kiss me just now?"

            I expected him to hesitate, but he didn't.  I expected him to deny it, but he didn't do that either.  "Yes.  I did."   

            I looked at him then.  "Why didn't you?"

            "Because… because it's not about me.  Not really.  I know what I want.  It took a long while to figure it out, and an even longer while to accept it.  Having my father try to kill me helped in sorting out my priorities, but in the end it wasn't about him or anyone else or what they expected me to be.  I had to decide for myself, and I did.  Now you have to decide.  Not just about this, but about your life as a whole and how you want to live it.  I'm not saying the fate of your entire existence hangs on what you decide in the next few moments.  You can always change your mind later on, but you have to start somewhere."  He paused.  A cheeky grin appeared on his face and he said, "There's all that and I also figured you'd slap the shit out of me if I tried.  I don't fancy being bruised for graduation tomorrow.  What with the picture taking and all."

            I tried hard not to smile, but I couldn't help myself.  "Aw, does ickle Draco have sensitive skin?"

            "No.  You fight dirty.  You hit like a boy.  It must be all those books you carry around.  Builds up the arm strength to excessive proportion."

            "Arm strength.  Yes."  My eyes drifted up to his forehead, and I bit my lip to keep from giggling again.  "Did you know," I said, lifting my hand, "that you have dirt, just there."  I touched his forehead, smudging the dirt, feeling the bones beneath his skin.  My hand shook, I shook, but I didn't stop.  His eyelashes were coal black and beneath them his eyes, silver blue.  I never believed in fate or predestination, but the world had worked its will that night and presented me with an option, a previously unrealized possibility, for me to consider.  And I did.  I considered it madness.  I considered it lunacy.  I considered it balmy, crackbrained, unhinged, daft, crazed, manic, and completely unbalanced.

            "So," I said, brushing back a disheveled strand of blonde hair, "are you going to kiss me now or do you plan to just stand there all night watching me work?"

            I considered it about as far from perfect as possible.

            Malfoy smiled another slow, seductive, dazzling smile.  "I say, Granger, there's hope for you yet," he said and then he leaned down and kissed me.

            I considered that the most perfect thing of all.

            And there you have it.  The night my life got flipped upside down and how I decided to keep it that way.  Life with Malfoy hasn't been easy, believe me.  He's stubborn and shameless, competitive and selfish.  But he's also passionate and witty and honest and never, ever boring.  And he loves me.  Even though I tried Quidditch and failed at it spectacularly.  Even though I made him attend Ron and Luna's wedding and play Muggle music at top volume in Malfoy manor and encourage him to work with Harry to rebuild the Ministry.  And I love him, too.  We wouldn't want it any other way.

end

Challenge requirements:

01. Draco/Hermione, seventh year, last night at Hogwarts.

02. Hermione can't be valedictorian.

03. Either Draco or Hermione needs to give a pep talk (to themselves or to anyone).

04. Someone needs to say, "This is your/our/my/their last chance," somewhere in the story.

05. Goyle must make a public proclamation.

06. At least three of the following superlatives must be mentioned in the story: Most Likely to End Up at St. Mungo's; Next Minister of Magic; Biggest Flirt; Most Changed; Most Likely to Succeed; Most Likely to be Featured in a Witch Weekly Scandal; Biggest Sorting Hat Mix-Up; Most Likely to Play Professional Quidditch.

07. Must be at least 1000 words.


End file.
